Devoid of Hesitation | [Bubby/Alistair]

It was, in utmost subtlety,

a blessing and a privilege all at once to be able to see the waves lap generously at the black rocks strewn about the shore. If it were another day or a less agitating scenario, Beau would have skinned a handful of apples – nearly ripen, because the ripe ones were too saccharine for his taste – and made a windy path down to the sands and the amoebas wandering in its pockets.

Their house was seaward bound: a colorful structure that appeared idyllic from the outside in its pastel blue walls and rusted wind wave, but was a control demon’s lair within.

His mother preferred to keep objects in their rightful places: vases, always filled to their brims with cool water, atop marble tables, ceramics in a singular file, silverware sternly told not to bulge from their markers on the table. She feared change as one would a six-foot tall spider, never getting adventurous with a new brand of soap or indulging in fresh recipes.

A waft of her renowned lemon chicken kissed Beau’s nostrils, and he closed his eyes in quiet resentment, balling hands to fists. “Alistair, get away from the window.” Despite the intents of rebellion he so wholeheartedly held inside him, Beau heeded the words. This was his curse: obedience. He was caught in his parents’ reins but made no traceable efforts to escape its hold.

There were mental sketches he’d thought about – wild constructions of mind about the place where he and Bobby would reside after running away from here. A house crafted from mere timbers, nestled by a hill and, of course, seaward.

The two would spend their idle hours behind closed doors and aired windows, or near the waves, or sprawl over the shore to star-gaze, watching comets pass by. He and Bobby could smooth out the minuscule details, as they did most of the time.

But for now, Beau put a distance between him and the window, closer to his mother.

She was working, quietly; the volume was channeled into the things her hands molded: rose-shaped tomatoes and carrots guised as leafs. “I know why you’re behind me – you can leave when Ms. Pixie does.” A scowl flashed on Beau’s face. “But, I don’t even know her! She’s just a lady!”

Mother grew quiet for a mere seconds as she tasted her own creations. He could decipher what she thought from the mere expressions. This one whispered: too much salt, needs more sour.

“She has ties with the businessmen your father wants to appease, so please, Alistair, play the part.” Miriam Beau was not a lady that sugarcoated her words, just her brown pretzels.

He’d been playing the part for what seems like decades now, dancing with worn robes to an audience his parents booked.

“But—” her voice “Alistair,” became the snarl of an impending storm. “I will not repeat myself.” He drowned out his whimper in the throat before pacing away to the dining quarters, where Ms. Pixie waved eagerly at him with diamond rings and pearled teeth.

Luncheon concluded after the meals and banter concerning the prestigious topics: career affairs, language, status quo of the land, and other pretentious subjects the rich thought the most relevant. He was excused with a finger’s tap and the ghost of a placid smile near his mother’s glossed lips.

Beau waded past crowds, past the seaward winds, past his own breath, charging onward to where the sky kissed the horizon and where he kissed Bobby.

He could recall the memories, so palpable, how his mouth opened over the boy’s, how the veins crackled and the heart crooned like an infant that’d been given a handful of sweets. Alistair was the most saccharine flavor out of all that he’s ever tasted – unrivaled, not even by the skinned and ripen apples.

Sand sprayed, and tides roared. But, seeing his face and eyes, Beau understood that the storm before had not been dissuaded to leave. Bobby’s gaze was a lake to him: he could see the treasures and quarries of rock the clear waters hid beneath its ripples.

“Alistair… I just waited…” He said. “Where have you been?” Beau sucked in a breath, letting the salted air weigh him down more than the other’s words did.

“Some place that does not matter now.” And, not ever, he wanted to include but decided otherwise. “I am sorry – I am so sorry, I know I’ve done this countless times, and it’s starting to become this thing where I victimize myself and – just …” Another breath; he needed it. “I am sorry.” Sheepishly, Beau stepped closer in between his arms, closer to the chest where his heartbeat was buried, closer to where he felt the most secure and fortified.

Lips found his earlobe, and he whispered a hairsbreadth apart from it:

“Cross my heart and hope to be forgiven.”